


The Hole in the World Affair

by improbableZero



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Mission Fic, Period-Typical Sexism, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/improbableZero/pseuds/improbableZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When U.N.C.L.E. discovers that an old classmate of Illya's, now working for THRUSH, has designed a world-shattering invention with astronomical power requirements, Waverly puts Agents Solo and Kuryakin on the job. Can our boys and their dæmons take down the machine and its creator before THRUSH can enact their dastardly plan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hole in the World Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the His Dark Materials universe, AKA Lyra's world, so not only do folks walk around with their souls in the forms of talking animals, the species of which express some facet of their personality, but some of the political boundaries and vocabulary are different from our world. In North America and Western Europe, the Magisterium is in charge, so instead of scientists in laboratories, you have experimental theologians in chapels. The Cold War is between the East, meaning the Iron Lands (USSR), which include Muscovy (Western Russia), Siberia, the Ukraine, etc.; and the West, meaning Brytain (UK), the United States of New Denmark (Eastern US), New France (the Midwest), and Hispania Nova (Southwestern US and Mexico), among others. In the Iron Lands, the Magisterium has been thoroughly kicked out and the government is aggressively atheist, so they use words like scientist and laboratory (or the Muscovite/Russian translations of those).
> 
> Additional vocab:  
> Adshusheer, Carolina: Durham, NC  
> aerodock: airport  
> anbaric (power): electric(ity)  
> chaplain: head of research/person in charge at a chapel  
> Groenland: a Danish colony, analogous to our-world Greenland; there are a couple of New Dane air bases and suchlike there, under agreement with the Danish monarchy, which are barely tolerated by the local populace  
> Norroway: analogous to our-world southern Norway  
> Ouisconsin: one of the States in the USND, right on the border with New France, comprising an area including our-world Winsconsin and about half of Minnesota; the border is just west of St. Paul.  
> Rusakov particles: Dust, elementary particles of consciousness, those sparkly golden things
> 
> I'll do my best to make sure things are clear, but if anything's confusing, you might find [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/His_Dark_Materials#Terminology_used_in_the_books) to be a helpful link for HDM-universe-related questions. If other things are confusing, please let me know! I will not be mad, and I will endeavor to fix it as best I can. Same goes for if there are any glaring historical, scientific, or MFU-continuity errors, but bear in mind that some of those might be intentional.
> 
> Warnings: There is a trans character who is misgendered and deadnamed repeatedly by one of the bad guys (the bad guy gets smacked pretty thoroughly). There's also some HDM-verse-type badness (mentions of intercision, dæmon-touching, etc), as well as some canon-typical minor violence. If those things bug you, tread carefully.

_A THRUSH chapel, somewhere on the coast of the United States of New Denmark_

The room was dim, most of its occupants long since departed, taking the light with them. A single lamp cast an island of illusory warmth around the one desk still occupied.

A pencil scratched across the page, the soft sounds of its passage accompanied by excited muttering.

"And if we just account for differences in thickness of dimensional boundaries, so it doesn't blow up in our faces…"

Flushed with success, the experimental theologian put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair to glance over his work one last time, his hand stroking absently over the feathers of his dæmon's back. There might be a few arithmetical errors, but the theory was sound. He even had the power source worked out.

THRUSH Central would be pleased.

 

***

 

**Act I: "It's only professional admiration…"**

 

_U.N.C.L.E. HQs, New Amsterdam, United States of New Denmark_

Alexander Waverly struck a match and lit his pipe, pretending that his attention was entirely on getting the tobacco to catch, rather than on the two young men with their heads bent over the file he'd just given them. He was very interested in seeing their reactions to this particular mission, given that one of them was in the same field as their target, a Rusakov physicist from Norroway with poor taste in benefactors.

Unfortunately for him, his crow dæmon, Liza, was much less subtle than her human. She was at least content to wait on his shoulder rather than pecking Agents Solo and Kuryakin for answers, but she was restless, settling and resettling her feathers and preening what greying hair Waverly had left.

Once Waverly had his pipe going to his satisfaction, he stroked the top of Liza's head, trying to soothe their agitation. "Patience, my dear. Let them absorb the information. Their minds only work so fast."

Liza grumbled, but settled down.

Agent Kuryakin looked up from the folder. "Sir, this file suggests that Dr. Rolvaag has been involved with THRUSH for over a decade."

"That's correct," said Waverly, concealing his smile behind the stem of his pipe. "Section IV only discovered the connection recently, but there is evidence of a significant history there."

"Didn't he publish that paper you were so excited about last week?" asked Agent Solo. His fox dæmon lifted her head in curiosity from where she was sprawled over Solo's lap and rested her chin on the table. "The one on—what was it again?"

"Capturing and storing Rusakov particles as a source of energy," Kuryakin murmured. Though his face remained blank, and his dæmon was hiding in his clothes as usual, his upset was clear. According to Kuryakin's file, Dr. Rolvaag had been someone he'd known in his university days and respected as a fellow experimental theologian—or scientist, as a Muscovite like Kuryakin might say—and as a fellow transplant from more northerly climes.

"Yes, it's quite distressing," said Waverly, unconcerned. "The more distressing part is what will happen if THRUSH manages to build the device our operative managed to catch a glimpse of the plans for. We can only hope they haven't been sent off to THRUSH Central yet."

"So we know what the device does, then?" Solo asked.

Waverly huffed out a plume of smoke. "No, more's the pity. The last we heard from that operative was a panicked, staticky report about the existence of those plans and the frankly ludicrous energy requirements they seemed to indicate."

Both field agents shifted in their chairs. Solo rubbed his dæmon's ears and scritched under her chin, almost absentmindedly. It was never pleasant to be reminded that their profession was a dangerous one.

"In any case, gentlemen," Waverly continued, "do retrieve Dr. Rolvaag and his research if at all possible. If not, at least make sure neither of them can provide any further aid to THRUSH. Your flight to Carolina leaves in three hours."

"Understood, sir," said Solo. His dæmon jumped down from his lap and he stood, putting a hand to Kuryakin's elbow to encourage his partner to his feet.

 

***

 

_Adshusheer, Carolina_

The flight was relatively short, being only a few hundred miles down the coast rather than across an ocean or to another country as many of their missions were these days. Napoleon, of course, spent the entire time flirting with the flight attendant, while Illya rolled his eyes and tried to sleep.

Checking in to their hotel (one room, one bed; typical of the Old Man's thriftiness, especially when he knew a pair of agents wouldn't object) was a similarly painless affair. Once they were as unpacked as they were going to get and they'd done their standard security sweep, the two of them spread the gathered intelligence out on the floor where they could look at it properly. Illya sprawled face-first next to the folders, letting himself go limp, and his kingsnake dæmon, Sasha, poked his nose out of the back of Illya's unbuttoned shirt collar to taste the air.

"Nice to see you're getting comfortable," said Napoleon, leaning against the end of the bed. His fox dæmon, Aimée, trotted over to touch noses with Sasha, who promptly removed himself the rest of the way from his usual hiding place in Illya's shirt. Aimée settled into her habitual fox-loaf position, her front paws tucked under, and Sasha curled up under her nose. Ordinarily, Napoleon would be nervous about his dæmon being so close to another person, but with Illya, it was different.

"This carpet is not entirely terrible," said Illya, his voice faintly muffled. "What's our first move, my friend?"

Napoleon smiled fondly at his partner. "Well, we have to find our feathered friends before we can do anything else. Any thoughts?"

Illya propped himself up on his elbows, fished his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, and examined the folders set out before them. "It doesn't seem like too great a leap to suppose that Dr. Rolvaag, at least, might be easily located. We have his home address."

"But he's not exactly likely to keep whatever he's working on at home," Napoleon pointed out. "And we want his research. He's incidental."

"Yes, but we can follow him to the lab—excuse me, chapel—from his home," said Illya. "It won't be hard. He never was very observant."

Napoleon tucked his hands into his pockets, watching his partner carefully. Aimée licked Sasha, who hissed and grumbled, but didn't move away. "Sounds like you knew him well."

Illya shrugged, keeping his eyes on the files and avoiding Napoleon's gaze. "Evidently not that well."

"Do you think he knew about—" Napoleon waved a hand vaguely, trying to encapsulate Illya's long spying career as elegantly as he could. "The secret agent thing?"

"I doubt it," said Illya. "As I said, when I knew him, he was not the most observant of persons. In any case—"

"I was just thinking," Napoleon interrupted.

"Don't strain yourself," Illya said sarcastically.

Napoleon gently tapped Illya's side with the toe of his shoe in reprimand. Sasha nipped Aimée's nose and got licked again for his trouble. "Won't it be easier to retrieve his notes and knowledge with a subtler approach?" Napoleon asked. "Besides, if THRUSH thinks we know nothing, they might get overconfident."

"Are you suggesting a spot of burglary, then?" asked Illya, rolling onto his side so he could look at his partner. Not coincidentally, this also put him out of range of further kicking. Sasha stayed curled up with Aimée, though, so Napoleon knew Illya couldn't be too mad.

"Not exactly," said Napoleon, a slightly rueful expression making its way onto his face.

"I'm not going to like this plan, am I," said Illya.

"It's got a higher probability of us not missing some vital tidbit than burglary," said Napoleon. "And a lower amount of collateral damage than storming and blowing up the satrapy."

"Mr. Waverly does appreciate it when we keep the property destruction to a minimum," Illya agreed. He sighed and sat up. Sasha unwrapped his long, brightly-colored body from under Aimée's snout and returned to Illya's lap. "All right, partner mine, what's this idea of yours?"

Napoleon told him.

"You were right," said Illya. "I don't like it."

"But?" Napoleon prompted.

Illya sighed again. "But it's probably more effective than just blowing the whole place up."

Napoleon leaned forward to pat Illya's shoulder. "Good man."

Instead of replying, Illya and Sasha yawned in unison. The movement displayed Sasha's very pointy, although not venomous, fangs to full advantage.

Aimée and Napoleon exchanged a glance, acknowledging without words that the person upon whom they'd bestowed their affections was both adorably ridiculous and ridiculously adorable.

"Okay, come on," said Napoleon, getting a hand under Illya's upper arm and tugging gently. "Time for all good little U.N.C.L.E. agents to be in bed."

"Oh, really? And what are you and I going to do, then?" asked Illya, blinking slowly and putting on a show of being sleepier than he actually was, but getting to his feet. Sasha climbed from Illya's lap, around his torso, and up to his shoulders.

Napoleon waggled his eyebrows at his partner. "I'm sure we'll think of something. You and I are both pretty creative when it comes down to it."

Illya rolled his eyes and leaned against Napoleon, deliberately making himself deadweight. Sasha stared Napoleon right in the eyes and slowly tasted the air.

"You're ridiculous," said Aimée, unfolding from her fox-loaf and jumping up onto the bed.

"Look who's talking," said Illya, slightly muffled by Napoleon's shirt.

Napoleon dropped a kiss on the top of Illya's head and wrapped his arms around Illya's trim waist. "Yes, but I'm so handsome and charming the ridiculousness is mostly concealed, especially in comparison to yours."

"You're lucky I like you so much," said Illya, turning his face up to be kissed.

"I am." Napoleon obliged, and took his partner to bed. The clothes stayed on—they were on the job, and not exactly in a secure location, and they had to be up early the next day—but the closeness was still nice.

 

***

 

"So," Napoleon said over breakfast the next morning in a local diner, "how are you planning on seducing your Rusakov physics hero?"

"So," Illya replied, "I see that tact is still but a vague theory to you. And he's hardly my hero, especially since he works for THRUSH. It's only professional admiration, at the very most, and only for the physics." Sasha was hiding in Illya's shirt again, as usual when they were out in public. They'd picked up the habit while they were in the Navy, to conserve both warmth and space aboard a submarine. It had initially disconcerted Napoleon, to be around someone without a visible dæmon, but he'd become accustomed to it over time.

"Any other bits of phrasing you want to nitpick, or were you planning on answering the question?" said Napoleon.

Illya rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. "I'd also like to argue against the word 'seduce'. It sounds so blatant."

"Whatever you say, partner mine," said Napoleon, resting his chin on one hand.

"You look like a lovestruck fool," Aimée murmured from his lap.

Napoleon stroked her ears. She wasn't wrong; she rarely was.

"But, since you ask, I was planning to tail him around town, then bump into him by complete coincidence at an opportune moment," said Illya. "And wipe that smirk off your face."

Napoleon sat up straight and attempted to smooth his expression out of a fond smile and back into something more appropriate for discussing a serious mission. "Do you have a cover story planned, as to why you're in New Denmark in general and Carolina in particular?"

Illya shrugged. "I was planning to keep it simple. Recently defected to the States, planning on looking for work at the University here, and who should I run into but my former colleague. Such a small world." He took a bite of toast.

"Sounds reasonable," said Napoleon. "While you're doing that, I'll take a look around Dr. Rolvaag's house, see if he's left anything important lying around." It was a bit of a reversal from their usual roles on a mission, but they would make it work.

"I wish you joy," Illya said dryly. He finished his toast and stood, brushing the crumbs delicately off his fingers.

"And the same to you," said Napoleon. "Sticking me with the bill, I see?"

Illya flashed him a small smile, there and gone again in half a heartbeat. "I'll make it up to you. Now, off to find my quarry." He sauntered out of the diner, every inch the hotshot young academic. Napoleon only swooned a little.

 

***

 

Illya was successful in tracking down Dr. Rolvaag, so he arranged an "accidental" meeting around noon in a local secondhand bookstore.

Pretending he was paying too much attention to the book in his hands (a copy of George Orwell's _1984_ , something no good Communist would be caught dead with) to notice his surroundings, Illya collided head-on with Dr. Rolvaag, who was examining a shelf of detective fiction.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," said Illya, as if on automatic. He allowed his accent to thicken just enough to make it sound like he'd spent the past few years in the Iron Lands, rather than working for U.N.C.L.E. in mostly English-speaking parts of the world. Then he looked up, and put a startled expression on his face. "Kristofer Rolvaag? Is that you?"

Dr. Rolvaag met Illya's eyes, and an expression of pleased surprise crossed his features. "Irina Kuryakina, as I live and breathe! What are you doing in Adshusheer? What are you doing in New Denmark? What have you done to your hair? It's so short!"

Illya allowed himself to smile, an ordinary civilian meeting an old friend by coincidence for the first time in several years, and forced himself not to flinch at the sound of a name he hadn't heard in almost as long. "Kris, it's so good to see you. To answer your questions, looking for work, I've defected, and I cut it." Sasha poked his nose out of Illya's sleeve to greet Essa, Dr. Rolvaag's bean goose dæmon, then retreated again.

"You've defected!" Dr. Rolvaag exclaimed. "You must tell me all about it. Perhaps over lunch?"

"Only if you tell me about what you've been up to in return," said Illya, lowering his eyes as if shy. It made his skin crawl to assume the postures and behaviors which he'd abandoned along with his previous name, but he reminded himself that it was all in the line of duty.

"Well, some of it's classified, but I'll tell you what I can," said Dr. Rolvaag. "Here, I know this wonderful little place for lunch, I'll show you…" He placed a hand on the small of Illya's back, fortunately nowhere near where Sasha was hiding.

Illya allowed himself to be guided out of the bookstore, keeping his expression calm by imagining all the bloody and painful ways he could ensure Dr. Rolvaag regretted ever joining THRUSH.

 

***

 

While his partner was busy distracting their target, Napoleon let himself into Dr. Rolvaag's apartment, Aimée close at his heels. Perhaps they would get lucky and find something that would lead them to the THRUSH satrapy.

"Blech," Aimée muttered, her nose wrinkling. "Dr. Rolvaag wears far too much cologne, and it's not even good cologne."

Napoleon sniffed the air and winced. That was awful. Aimée, with her superior sense of smell, probably had it even worse. "You're right, my dear. Let's make this quick."

A careful search revealed nothing incriminating in the front room. There was a similar lack of useful documents in the study. The bedroom, however, brought them better fortune.

"Napoleon," Aimée hissed from under the bed. "I've found something."

Napoleon crouched down to peer into the narrow space. His dæmon had better night vision than he did, along with being able to squeeze into tighter spaces, so it wasn't surprising that she'd found something first. "Fantastic, my dear. Bring it out so I can take a look?"

Aimée emerged, fluffy tail first, a file folder held gently between her teeth. She set it down on the carpet by Napoleon's feet; he sat down with a little huff of air, perhaps not as graceful as Illya might have been.

"Where did you find this?" Napoleon asked as he flipped the folder open, miniature camera in hand to start photographing its contents.

Aimée groomed her front paws, self-satisfied. "There was a little panel under the bed, and under that there was this folder. I imagine the bed has to be moved in order for Dr. Rolvaag to access his files."

"Terribly inconvenient," Napoleon said, distracted by the contents of the file. "Hmm. Nothing very exciting in here, just your everyday THRUSH goings-on. Oh, that's interesting."

"What?" Aimée stuck her nose under Napoleon's arm to look at the files for herself.

"Our Dr. Rolvaag is their chaplain," said Napoleon. "And…aha. Here's the satrapy's address. You are the very cleverest, darling."

Aimée grinned at the praise. "Are you finished photographing?"

Napoleon flipped through the last pages of the folder, then pushed himself to his feet. "Yes—be a dear and put it back, would you?"

Aimée took the folder and wiggled back under the bed to return it to its home, then scooted back out and jumped directly into Napoleon's arms. She stuck her cold nose right under his ear.

"Well, all right then," said Napoleon. It wasn't like she was very heavy; they both kept themselves fit.

Removing themselves from the building was as simple as entering it had been. THRUSH really should invest in better security for their minions—it just wasn't sporting.

"Maybe it's a trap," Aimée murmured on the way back to the hotel.

"Let's hope not, my dear," said Napoleon.

Well. They would just have to wait and see. At least they would have some reading material to keep them occupied.

 

***

 

Illya slammed through the hotel room door, his entire body shaking. Sasha was nowhere to be seen, as usual; the little kingsnake was curled up as tightly as he possibly could be around Illya's middle.

Napoleon rose from his seat at the desk, hands held out, Aimée close at his heels. "Hey, hey, Illya, partner mine, what's wrong? Did Dr. Rolvaag suspect something? Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Illya snapped out, not meeting Napoleon's eyes as he scooped up his toiletries and shut himself in the bathroom.

Illya turned the shower on to as hot as it would go, trying to steady his racing heart and gasping breath. He fought his shoes off, not bothering to untie them, and sat down to remove his socks and fumble the buttons of his shirt open.

Napoleon knocked on the bathroom door. "Illya? Are you all right?"

"Go away!" Sasha yelled, unwrapping himself from around Illya's middle and shooting off to hide in the corner between the sink and the toilet, right at the edge of their range.

"I'm fine, Napoleon," said Illya. He tugged his undershirt up and off, then hauled himself up by the edge of the counter so he could get his pants and underwear off.

"That doesn't sound like fine," said Napoleon.

"My part of the mission is proceeding according to plan," Illya snapped. He glared at his reflection, at the two neat pinkish-white scars across his flat chest and the stubborn roundness of his face.

"That's not what I asked," said Napoleon.

"Go away, Napoleon," said Illya. He stepped into the shower and yanked the curtain shut behind him, determined to ignore everything other than hot water and soap for the next ten minutes or so.

 

***

 

Napoleon sat back down at the desk with the photographs of Dr. Rolvaag's file and sighed.

"We knew he was stubborn when we started this," Aimée reminded him. She jumped up into his lap.

"I know," said Napoleon. He rubbed her ears and stroked down the line of her spine. "He doesn't usually get this upset about having to do the diplomatic part."

"It's not usually someone he knew before U.N.C.L.E., either," said Aimée. "Dr. Rolvaag was probably calling him the wrong name all afternoon."

"Oh" said Napoleon. "Of course. I'd almost forgotten." He knew about his partner's history and previous name; it was right there in Illya's file, and Illya had told him the whole story the first time they'd so much as kissed. But, having only known Illya by that name and in masculine dress and manner, it was hard to imagine him as anything else.

The bathroom door slammed open, releasing a cloud of steam, and Illya emerged, covered from the chest down by a towel. Sasha was close at his heels.

Aimée jumped down from Napoleon's lap and went to greet Sasha, bumping her snout against him, her fluffy tail flicking in worry.

Sasha hissed at her, baring his fangs, although he seemed more inclined to flee than fight.

"Illya," said Napoleon.

"No," said Illya. He dropped the towel on the floor and bent to rummage through his suitcase for clean clothes.

Napoleon took a moment to admire his partner's damp, pale skin, his trim waist, that little bit of softness around his hips and thighs that Illya disliked but that Napoleon enjoyed getting his hands on. He stood and wandered over, letting a hand trail over the small of Illya's back.

Illya froze, tension sharp in the lines of his muscles. "Not right now, Napoleon," he said quietly.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Illya," said Napoleon, firmly squashing his disappointment. "Just thought I'd remind you that you're one of the best men I know and there's no one I'd rather have for a partner. And if you want to talk about it, I'll listen, and if you don't, I have some nice distractions in the form of information on the THRUSH satrapy."

Illya sighed and retrieved some clothing, straightening up to put it on. "THRUSH, if you don't mind. I have some information from today as well; we can trade over dinner."

"Sounds like a plan, partner," said Napoleon. "My treat?"

Illya rolled his eyes and scooped his dæmon up, running his fingers gently along Sasha's brightly-colored scales. "If you insist."

 

***

 

Dinner was a businesslike affair, with Aimée remaining demurely under Napoleon's chair and Sasha draped protectively around Illya's neck.

"I managed to find the address of the satrapy," Napoleon said between bites of fish.

"Dr. Rolvaag told me all about the theory behind his Rusakov-particle storage devices," Illya reported. "Although he wasn't clear on where the energy is to come from or what it's to be used for."

"Nefarious purposes, no doubt," said Napoleon. "This is THRUSH we're talking about, after all."

"Naturally." Illya rolled his eyes. "I have an invitation to come see what he's been working on tomorrow afternoon."

"Keep your tracking beacon turned on," said Napoleon.

"I am neither an idiot nor a rookie," Illya snapped, "so don't treat me like one."

Napoleon made a contrite expression. "Sorry, Illya."

Illya looked embarrassed. "No, I apologize—I shouldn't have snapped. It's been a long day."

"That it has," said Napoleon. He glanced at his watch. "Shall we?"

"Let's," said Illya.

Napoleon flagged down their waiter for the check.

 

***

 

The meeting the next day was going perfectly right up until the moment when it wasn't.

Illya had met Dr. Rolvaag for lunch, then the two of them had walked to the THRUSH satrapy. At least there hadn't been any handholding; it was uncomfortable enough already.

The satrapy was disguised as an ordinary block of offices. It looked quite standard: filing cabinets, desks, et cetera. There weren't any papers left lying about, or even any mysterious and ominous equipment. Honestly, Illya was a bit disappointed.

Once the door closed behind them, Dr. Rolvaag turned around casually, a gun in his hand. "That'll be quite far enough, my dear U.N.C.L.E. agent."

Illya sighed. Of course it was a trap. He put his hands up and hoped Napoleon would be speedy about the rescuing.

 

***

 

**Act II: Reality bites**

 

As dinnertime approached with no word from Illya, Napoleon paced and fidgeted.

"Remember, Sasha's wrapped around their communicator, which has the tracking beacon in it," said Aimée. She was managing to stay in one place, but her fluffy tail was lashing back and forth. "They're not exactly likely to lose it."

Napoleon looked at the clock again. It was nearly five; they'd expected Illya and Sasha back around three-thirty, perhaps four. "I know."

"We'll give it ten more minutes, then we go find them," said Aimée.

Napoleon sighed in relief. "Yes."

 

***

 

Illya put up with being menaced, stripped of his jacket, gun, and shoes, and having his hands tied behind his back with a sort of exasperated dignity. He still had the tracking beacon; the THRUSHes hadn't had the nerve to pat him down or look for his dæmon. Sasha, wrapped tightly around their communicator, was tucked away in Illya's shirt, as usual.

"Well, well, well," Dr. Rolvaag said, leaning on the edge of a nearby table. Essa, his bean goose dæmon, stood on the table beside her human. "Little Irina Kuryakina, U.N.C.L.E. agent. Whoever could have guessed?"

"If you're going to stop pretending you haven't read up on me, you might as well stop using that name," said Illya. The one good thing about having been found out was that he could drop the posture and let himself stand up straight with his shoulders back.

Dr. Rolvaag looked faintly confused and offended. "What name would I use instead? The false one you gave your U.N.C.L.E. masters? It doesn't suit you, darling."

"And I thought working for an organization dedicated to ruining everyone's collective day wouldn't suit you, yet here we are," Illya snapped back.

"Where's your partner?" asked Dr. Rolvaag. "I know you U.N.C.L.E. agents like to travel in pairs. He must be around here somewhere."

"None of your business," said Illya, reining his temper back in. He contemplated kicking Dr. Rolvaag's kneecaps in and reminded himself that, with the tracking beacon not yet confiscated, Napoleon would be able to find him when he came looking—which, knowing how his partner worried, Illya guessed would be fairly soon.

"Oh, I think it is," said Dr. Rolvaag. He pushed off the table and approached Illya, circling around behind him, trailing a finger across the line of Illya's shoulders. "And where's your dæmon? Hiding, I expect. Coward."

Illya shuddered unpleasantly at the touch and forced his posture to remain unaffected. "Only from your bad breath and greasy face, I expect," he said calmly.

Dr. Rolvaag's eyes narrowed and he slapped Illya across the face. "I see you're just as much of an ice queen as you were at University."

"That's ice _prince_ to you," said Illya. He ignored his stinging cheek. It wasn't important right now.

Dr. Rolvaag turned to one of the standard-issue THRUSH minions standing by the door. "How thoroughly was she searched?" he demanded.

The THRUSHie shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Sir," he said, then stopped.

Dr. Rolvaag sighed. "Apparently I have to do everything myself." He reached out and ripped Illya's shirt open, sending buttons flying. "Where's your communicator? I know you have one on you."

Illya concealed a wince. He'd liked that shirt. At least Sasha was hiding at the small of his back, just above his bound hands, and wouldn't be easily dislodged by rough handling. "Sounds like you've got a lot of questions."

"Sounds like you have a lot of cheek," said Dr. Rolvaag. He slapped Illya again.

"Ow," said Illya, completely deadpan.

Dr. Rolvaag ran his hands roughly down Illya's sides, between his shirt and his undershirt. Finding nothing, he started to shift around to Illya's back.

This time, Illya didn't manage to contain his flinch. Sasha was fairly small, as dæmons went, but not so small that a determined search would miss him, especially without the sheltering looseness of Illya's shirt.

"Well, well, well, looks like I've answered two of my questions at once," said Dr. Rolvaag. He grabbed onto both Sasha and the communicator and pulled them out where he could look at them.

At the first brush of hands not his own on Sasha's scales, Illya choked and doubled over, falling to his knees. Only balance drilled into him from years of gymnastics and even more years of training kept his face from colliding with the floor. He would have screamed, but he didn't have the breath for it. His world narrowed down to the awful violation of foreign hands on him—on Sasha—and he forgot about the communicator, about pretending harmlessness, and Sasha twisted around and bit down hard on whatever piece of trespassing flesh he could find.

Dr. Rolvaag swore and let the communicator drop to the floor. "Freak," he hissed. Sasha would have fallen too, but his teeth were sunk fairly deeply into Dr. Rolvaag's hand.

Illya gasped for air, firmly suppressing his gag reflex and trying not to cry. He needed a witty comeback, needed to show he wasn't beaten, needed his dæmon to hold close and not let anyone near—

Dr. Rolvaag grabbed Sasha by the middle with his other hand and squeezed, just slightly.

Illya passed out at that point, overwhelmed.

 

***

 

The steady, quiet ringing of the tracker took Napoleon and Aimée to what looked like an ordinary block of offices.

"It's not the address Dr. Rolvaag had listed in his files," Aimée murmured.

"To be honest, I'm not terribly surprised," Napoleon muttered back.

They crept in through a back entrance, although that creeping did involve a small explosion to get a locked door open. Oops. Such a shame.

Once inside, they tried to keep to the shadows as they wandered around looking for Illya and Sasha. Napoleon had his gun out, with the safety off, but he kept his finger away from the trigger. Even if it was only loaded with sleep darts, it wouldn't do to shoot someone on accident.

The building was strangely deserted; not a THRUSH in sight, and Napoleon couldn't hear the distinctive whine of their rifle scopes either.

Aimée's ears pricked up. "A thud," she whispered. "Above and to the left. Probably Illya wreaking havoc."

"And if it's not him, it'll be someone who knows where he is," Napoleon agreed.

They found a staircase without too much trouble and went up a floor. A cautious peek out into the hallway revealed a single THRUSH guard, facing away from the stairwell, his chocolate Labrador dæmon lying down beside his feet.

Napoleon pointed the muzzle of his gun very carefully at the guard's back and fired. The guard crumpled soundlessly into a heap; his dæmon flopped over onto her side and snuffled sleepily.

Napoleon and Aimée dragged the guard and his dæmon into the stairwell; the dæmon proved a bit of a difficulty, as Aimée was about half her size, but they managed.

Napoleon relieved the guard of his jumpsuit, beret, and rifle and put them on over his own clothes, then struck a pose. "How do I look?" he asked Aimée in a low tone.

Aimée huffed a laugh. "Let's be honest here, powder blue is not your color."

"I'm so glad we joined an organization whose belief in individual freedom extends to one's wardrobe," said Napoleon. "Let's go find Illya."

 

***

 

When Illya came to, he was tied to a chair, and neither his communicator nor his dæmon was anywhere in sight. He firmly choked down the initial surge of panic; he didn't feel that sharp, tearing pain in his chest that meant they were outside their range, so Sasha must be nearby, so there was no reason to be afraid.

"Sasha?" he half-whispered. There was no one else in the room, so he wasn't worried that he would be overheard.

"I'm here," Sasha whispered back from under the chair Illya was tied to. "They put me in a glass box with a mesh top. It looks latched from the outside—not difficult to undo, but I can't get at it from inside."

"And I'm a bit tied up at the moment, so it would be sort of a challenge for me to get at it," said Illya. "I don't suppose they left our communicator in there with you?"

"No such luck," said Sasha. "I think we're on our own for the moment."

"Well, it could be worse," said Illya. "It could be snowing." He paused, wiggling his bare toes restlessly against the concrete floor. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No," said Sasha. "A little bruised, maybe."

"Good," said Illya.

Another pause.

"I wasn't…expecting that," Sasha admitted. "That Kris would…"

"Neither was I," Illya said, voice soft.

"He wasn't like that at school," Sasha said. "A little cold sometimes, but no more so than we were."

"And yet he's been THRUSH the entire time we knew him, so apparently we're not actually that good at reading people," Illya snapped.

Sasha's flinch was nearly palpable, especially with their bond as raw and sensitized as it currently was.

Illya sighed. "I'm sorry. It's a little upsetting to see for myself the evidence that an old acquaintance isn't who we thought he was."

"We underestimated him," said Sasha. "But I think he underestimated us, too. Do you still have your watch?"

"Yes, although my shirt seems to have vanished—oh, of course," said Illya, remembering the small, sharp, serrated blade hidden in the buckle.

Some minor contortions of the wrist and fingers later, as well as more than a few nicks and scratches, Illya's left hand was free, followed quickly by his right. He bent to untie his ankles, then, released from the chair, knelt to unlatch the mesh top of the box Sasha was in.

They took a moment, Illya sitting on the cold tile floor and Sasha held close to his chest, to settle themselves. Once the shaking had subsided, Illya stood and looped Sasha carefully around his neck.

"You're going to get fat with me carrying you everywhere," Illya murmured as he picked the lock on the door.

"Don't be silly," said Sasha. "Dæmons don't get fat."

A quick glance up and down the hallway revealed it to be empty, so Illya slipped out of the room and went in search of the plans they had originally been sent here for.

 

***

 

Napoleon and Aimée followed the tracker along the corridors, doing their best to look like they belonged here. They passed a few THRUSH guards, but none of them seemed suspicious or wary, so their ruse must have been working.

They paused outside a closed door; the tracker indicated that Illya's communicator was on the other side, but voices muffled by the door indicated that there were also people on the other side, and Napoleon would prefer minimal bloodshed.

Stolen rifle in hand, he pressed himself to the wall on the side with the hinges and tried to look like he was on guard duty. Aimée sat dutifully by his feet, her ears pricked to the conversation inside.

"Just one person, and there are pauses, so I think he's on the phone," Aimée murmured to Napoleon—her hearing was better, so it made sense for her to listen in while Napoleon kept an eye out. "I can smell that same cologne that was in Dr. Rolvaag's apartment."

"Probably his office, then," Napoleon murmured back. "What's he talking about?"

"He's confirming that…something's arrived somewhere," said Aimée. "He seems excited about…oh, shit."

"What?" said Napoleon, cursing his human-average hearing. He could make out the tone of the conversation, but not much more.

"He's asking how THRUSH Central likes the plans he sent them," said Aimée, horrified. "We're too late."

Despair washed through them. Napoleon leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. Aimée flopped out at his feet and rested her chin on her paws, letting out a soft whine.

Okay. They could be professional about this. There was still a chance to get the plans for themselves, and they definitely had to find Illya and Sasha. It was looking fairly likely that Illya had been separated from his communicator. A THRUSH would hardly have that kind of telephone conversation in front of an enemy, unless that THRUSH was gloating, and the tone of Dr. Rolvaag's voice hadn't indicated that. Excitement, yes, but hardly gloating.

Napoleon and Aimée pulled themselves together just as the telephone conversation inside came to an end. The office door opened and Dr. Rolvaag and his dæmon emerged—Napoleon recognized them from the picture that had been in the file Waverly had given him and Illya.

Fortunately, Dr. Rolvaag seemed preoccupied, and the bean goose waddling at his side barely glanced at Aimée as they passed. Once they turned a corner, both Napoleon and Aimée let out a quiet, relieved breath.

The office wasn't locked. Napoleon spared a moment to thank God for the absentmindedness of THRUSH's experimental theologians before he and Aimée slipped through. He did lock the door behind them, though; it would give them a few extra moments if someone interrupted them.

They split up to search the room. Napoleon found Illya's gun, shoulder holster, and communicator in a desk drawer, but they didn't find any sort of plans or notes.

"The interesting stuff is probably in the chapel," Aimée sighed.

"Well, at least we know where that is," said Napoleon. There had been a sign a few corridors back with a helpful arrow. And from the chapel, it might be easier to find Illya.

 

***

 

Illya was able to find the lab without much difficulty—nice of THRUSH to leave signs all over the place. Getting there, however, proved slightly more difficult. He'd had to knock out at least three different THRUSHes, and one of them had gotten in a solid blow to Illya's side. There wasn't anything broken that he could tell, but it was probably going to be one hell of a bruise.

As casually as he could manage, he tested the doorknob. Locked. Not that surprising. Fortunately, Illya had a few tricks up his sleeve, even with the sleeve in question vanished with the rest of his shirt. He carefully fished his lockpicks out of the side seams of his pants and set to work.

"Wow," Sasha commented when the doorknob remained stubbornly immobile after nearly two minutes of Illya poking at it and cursing under his breath. "Either THRUSH has stepped up their game, or you need more practice."

"Hush," Illya said, half fond and half frustrated. "I usually have explosives for obstacles like locked doors and inconvenient THRUSHes."

After a further minute of swearing and fiddling, the lock yielded, and Illya opened the door.

He found himself nose-to-muzzle with an U.N.C.L.E. Special with his partner behind it.

Napoleon blinked and lowered his gun. "Illya! Are you all right?"

Illya let out a quiet, relieved breath. "I'm fine, Napoleon."

"I've got your gun and communicator," said Napoleon, rummaging one-handed in the pockets of his THRUSH jumpsuit (doubtless appropriated from some hapless guard) to produce the items in question and hand them over. Aimée came trotting forward; Sasha slid down Illya's arm and onto her back.

"Oh, I see how it is," said Illya, mock-offended. He buckled his shoulder holster into place and felt a bit of the tension go out of his body at the familiar weight. "You leave me the second someone warmer and softer comes along."

"Yes," Sasha said smugly. "Exactly."

"To be fair, partner, you're very bony," said Napoleon. He flipped the safety on and holstered his gun so he could go back to searching the lab—or chapel, as he'd call it.

"On the contrary, partner, you're too soft," Illya said loftily as he joined in the search. "I'd expect nothing more from a Westerner."

Napoleon snagged Illya by the beltloops and reeled him in for a quick kiss. "You're the one who wraps himself around me like an octopus every chance you get. I'd say you like my decadent capitalist softness."

Illya flushed pink. "Less flirting, more looking for those plans," he mumbled, turning away.

With the four of them working together—Napoleon and Illya investigated the filing cabinets and traded intel on what had happened lately while Sasha and Aimée poked through the smaller, harder-to-reach spaces—it wasn't long before they found what they were looking for.

Just as they'd confirmed that what they'd found was indeed the plans with the off-the-charts power requirements and those plans had been stuffed into Napoleon's shirt, the door opened and Dr. Rolvaag stepped in, his bean goose dæmon right behind him.

"Not so fast," Dr. Rolvaag crowed. "Didn't you know that this satrapy can self-destruct? I've already started the sequence, and it can't be stopped! You will die here, buried under the collapsing building, while I—"

Illya calmly pulled out his gun, which was loaded with sleep darts, and shot Dr. Rolvaag in the chest. The experimental theologian collapsed just like he'd promised the building would, his bean goose falling over unconscious beside him.

"Let's get out of here," Illya said, face and voice neutral. The building rumbled in warning.

"Right," Napoleon agreed.

 

***

 

_U.N.C.L.E. HQs, New Amsterdam_

"These plans are certainly interesting," said Illya. He glanced over at Napoleon, who was (reluctantly) typing up their report at his own desk, Aimée lounging by his feet.

Napoleon sighed and paused in his typing to roll his shoulders back. "Yes, but what does it do?"

"I'm not sure," Illya admitted. It clearly bothered him that he didn't know, but that irritation would only encourage his determination to pry apart the inner workings of the plans. That boundless curiosity had gotten him into no end of scrapes, but it was also what made him good at his job—both the Rusakov physics part and the spying thing. He sighed. "At least Waverly probably won't be any more upset than he already is."

Napoleon winced. The Old Man had been… _displeased_ , to say the least, at the outcome of their most recent jaunt out. Not only did THRUSH Central have the plans, but the experimental theologian was presumed dead, an entire office block had been destroyed, and Illya and Sasha hadn't made any headway on understanding the copy of the plans they'd managed to retrieve. As a consequence, both Illya and Napoleon were stuck on desk duty for the next few weeks or until they figured out what the plans were for, whichever was longer. To be fair, they did have a not-insignificant pile of paperwork to catch up on, and if that ran out, Mr. Waverly could always find more for them to do.

Their shared office returned to the mostly-quiet of Napoleon's typing, Illya and Sasha's soft conversation, and the scratching of Illya's pencil against his notepad.

Napoleon frowned at the scribbled, haphazard notes that made up the first draft of their field report. Illya had been distant lately—not any colder than he was with most people, but it was a noticeable difference from how he usually treated Napoleon. They hadn't had dinner together in a while—not since coming back from Carolina. Add that to the way Sasha was more often than not these past few days draped around Illya's neck, rather than somewhere in his clothes, like Illya needed the reassuring weight of his dæmon someplace they could keep an eye on each other…something was up. And Napoleon would bet his exploding cufflinks that it was something that had happened in Carolina.

Not that he could ask Illya about it directly. Illya was a master of shutting down lines of questioning he didn't like, especially ones that pertained to his physical, mental, or emotional well-being. _Ice prince indeed,_ Napoleon grumbled to himself, recalling the nickname some of their less-charitable coworkers had given Illya.

All right, then, he'd have to be sneaky about it. That was fine; being sneaky was his job. And he knew for a fact that Illya could be bribed.

Just as he was about to suggest that Illya come over to his apartment that evening for dinner, Illya swore under his breath.

"Everything all right over there?" said Napoleon, turning to see if Illya was hurt.

"I figured out what it's supposed to do," said Illya, his voice blank and careful.

"What?" said Napoleon.

Illya took a deep breath. "THRUSH is trying to punch unstable holes in the fabric of reality to see if they can get to other worlds. And I think I know where they're going to try it."

 

***

 

 **Act III: "A THRUSH satrapy in** **_my_ ** **airbase?"**

 

_Thule Air Base, Groenland_

"Why do Rusakov physicists like the Arctic so much?" Napoleon whined, burrowing further into his collar as they hustled from the tiny plane that had dropped them off to the main building of the aerodock. He'd somehow managed to fit Aimée inside his parka with him—Illya suspected that the parka was a size too large—and the tip of her nose just under Napoleon's chin was all that could be seen of her.

"Because my entire field of study exists solely to torture you," said Illya, absolutely deadpan. He was cold too, of course—it was well below freezing, and there was only so much clothing one could put on—and he could feel it dragging at his and Sasha's energy. There were reasons they hadn't gone into research after they'd gotten their doctorate, and the location of most research outposts had been one of those reasons. One of the disadvantages of having a cold-blooded dæmon was the susceptibility to temperature. Not that he'd show it.

"You know, I could almost believe that," Napoleon grumbled.

Finally, they made it inside the aerodock and out of the biting wind, where they could set down their suitcases and get out of a few layers. Illya shed his coat and scarf, but left his hat on. Napoleon unzipped his parka more carefully so he could put Aimée down.

An older man approached them, clearly military by his clothes and posture, German shepherd dæmon trotting along at his side. "You must be the men from U.N.C.L.E.," he said, extending a hand.

Napoleon shook it, smiling, as Aimée trotted forward to touch noses with the man's dæmon. "That's us. I'm Agent Solo, this is my Aimée, and this is my partner, Agent Kuryakin. I'm guessing you'd be Colonel Miller?"

"That's right," said Miller. "And this is my Annabel." He patted his dæmon's head. "I'll admit, I found what your boss told me pretty hard to believe."

"We assure you, it's correct to the best of our intelligence," Illya said smoothly. "There is, of course, the possibility that we might be wrong, but Mr. Waverly has a policy of better safe than sorry." That was only true inasmuch as it came to hunting down THRUSH, but Miller didn't have to know that.

Miller shook his head. "Of course, of course. Still, a THRUSH satrapy in _my_ airbase?"

"Not in," Illya corrected. "Near. We think it's somewhere outside of Thule proper, most likely to the north."

"Mr. Waverly suggested that we work with you, just to make sure we're not stepping on any toes," said Napoleon. "We'd find your assistance invaluable in rooting out THRUSH. Of course, we understand if your hands are tied by protocol and jurisdiction, but any help you can give us would be greatly appreciated."

Miller huffed. "Well, I can't do much for you. We're only barely tolerated here as it is. I can lend you some equipment and give you a place to stay for a few nights, but that's about it."

"That's fine," said Illya. He hated diplomacy.

"Like I said, we really appreciate the help," Napoleon added, casually stepping on Illya's foot as a reminder to be polite.

"You're welcome," said Miller. "Now if you two will come with me, I'll show you where you'll be staying. There's not exactly a lot of extra space around here, so I'll be putting you up in my guest room." He started herding them towards the door, his dæmon nudging Aimée forward.

"That's very kind of you," said Illya, tone flat. He and Napoleon re-applied their winter layers and picked up their suitcases to follow.

 

***

 

In Colonel Miller's guest room, Illya spread the map that had been in the file they'd stolen from Dr. Rolvaag's lab across the desk. They'd looked at it before, but it couldn't hurt to go over their plan one last time. Sasha slid onto the paper with a sort of crinkling thump while Aimée jumped up onto the desk chair so she could see better.

"Here's the satrapy and lab," said Illya, indicating a little icon of a house with a cross on top. "It will be concealed somehow; my guess is we won't be able to see it until we're right on top of it."

"So, the slow approach," said Napoleon, resting his hands on Illya's shoulders and rubbing slowly over the fabric of Illya's shirt. "We'll want to use snowmobiles to get within half a mile or so, or we'll be too exhausted and frozen to actually put up a fight."

Illya leaned back into Napoleon's hands, letting his eyes slip close and his body go loose. Ordinarily, he wouldn't tolerate this much affection on a mission, but they were in a relatively secure location and didn't have to go anywhere or do anything until late the next day. He could let his guard down this once. "Mm. But once we're that close, we go on foot."

"Mmhm." Napoleon ducked his head to press a kiss just under the hinge of Illya's jaw, then let his hands slip down until they were resting on either side of Illya's waist, just above the top of his slacks. "But that's not until tomorrow. And we've done all the planning we can."

"You're not wrong," said Illya. He let his head fall back against Napoleon's shoulder, baring his throat, and rested his hands on top of Napoleon's. "However, it's quite some time until morning."

Napoleon chuckled. "See, I have some ideas as to how we could spend that time…"

Illya grinned, upside-down, at Napoleon. "I'll just bet you do."

 

***

 

Afterwards, they lay in a tangled heap in the middle of the mattress, covers forming a messy nest around them. Aimée and Sasha were wrapped around each other at the foot of the bed, making contented noises.

"So," said Napoleon.

"Mmph," said Illya, nuzzling into Napoleon's chest, drifting in the warm afterglow.

Napoleon smiled fondly and ruffled through Illya's sweat-damp hair. "What happened in Carolina?"

Illya froze, suddenly more awake. "You know what happened in Carolina, Napoleon. You were there."

"Not for all of it," said Napoleon. He rubbed the back of Illya's neck. "C'mon, sweetheart. It's okay."

Illya bit him viciously. "Don't call me sweetheart. Nothing happened in Carolina."

"You're a terrible liar," said Napoleon. "You've been acting off ever since we got back."

"You're only bringing this up now because I don't have anywhere to run to and I'm comfortable," Illya grumbled. "That's cheating."

"It's not cheating, it's taking full advantage of my resources," said Napoleon. "And you're avoiding the question. What happened in Adshusheer?"

"You don't think that maybe it was learning that someone I used to respect and admire had been working for THRUSH the whole time?" Illya snapped.

"Well, that's probably part of it," said Napoleon. "But I know you, partner. Darling. Lyubov. There's something else."

"Your accent is atrocious," said Illya.

"Illya," Napoleon said firmly, "look at me." He enforced the request with a hand under Illya's chin, nudging him up so they faced each other.

Illya refused to meet his eyes. "Nothing happened in Carolina," he repeated, but without conviction.

"Did Rolvaag hurt you? I'll hunt down his ghost myself and kick his ass all over the afterlife if he did," said Napoleon.

"Ghosts aren't real," said Illya. "And there's no such thing as an afterlife."

"Illya," Napoleon said, warning.

Illya sighed and gave in, letting himself go limp. "He touched Sasha." Hopefully, if he said it quietly enough, Napoleon wouldn't hear him.

No such luck. Napoleon's arms tightened around Illya and he growled. "Jesus, Illya, what the hell."

Illya bit him again, digging in his teeth until Napoleon quieted. "Sasha and I are well able to protect ourselves," he said. "There's no need for you to play the white knight, and if you insist on doing so, I'll have to ask Waverly to assign me a partner who actually respects me when we get back."

Napoleon winced. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Hmph." Illya disentangled his limbs from Napoleon's and rolled over so he was facing away from his partner.

Napoleon stroked Illya's shoulder. "I know you can protect yourselves," he said quietly. "I'd bet on you against any number of THRUSHes. I just worry about you, because you're my partner and my friend, and in case you hadn't noticed, I do care about you."

Illya said nothing, but Sasha unwrapped himself from Aimée and slid up the bed to Illya's hands.

Napoleon placed a kiss gently on the nape of Illya's neck. "I'm sorry for overreacting."

Sasha poked his head over Illya's shoulder. "We know you care about us," he said. "But it's not like it's never happened before."

Napoleon restrained his reaction this time, although Aimée's ears went flat. "Oh?"

Illya curled up around Sasha. "You're not getting the gory details."

"Then I won't ask for them," said Napoleon. Sure, he was curious, but not at the expense of his partner's well-being. "Just…don't feel like you have to hide things like that from me, okay? If you're hurt, pretending you're not is only going to get both of us in trouble."

Illya sighed and rolled back over to face Napoleon, Sasha still wrapped around his hands. "Fine."

Napoleon kissed him gently. "Good."

 

***

 

They planned to set off at dawn. It being mid-October above the Arctic Circle, dawn wasn't until nearly ten o'clock in the morning, so they had time for a leisurely breakfast with Colonel Miller and his daughter, Erin.

Illya was not awake yet; the sun was not up, therefore he was only reluctantly vertical. Sasha had ventured out of Illya's sleeve to wrap himself around their coffee mug, but the warmth and caffeine could only do so much. Another reason he hadn’t wanted to work in a research outpost in the frozen north.

Napoleon, of course, was in top form, dressed and polished and already flirting shamelessly with the colonel's daughter. Apparently the young lady was quite adventurous, much to her father's dismay, and was familiar with the area Napoleon and Illya were planning on exploring.

"There's not really much, north of the town," Erin was saying. "It's mostly just trees."

"Nothing at all out there?" Napoleon asked, propping his chin on one hand.

"Well, there's this one old cabin," said Erin. "But it's falling apart, and tiny besides. I don't think it's big enough to hold a dining table, much less a whole chapel."

"You'd be surprised," Illya muttered, recalling the many concealed bases he and Napoleon had blown up together.

Napoleon winked at Erin. "Sometimes, exciting things can come in small packages."

Illya exchanged a glance with Sasha, both of them rolling their eyes. Knowing Napoleon rarely meant anything by it didn't make listening to the cheesy flirting any more bearable. "The satrapy is most likely underground."

"The ground's too frozen around here to really dig into," said Erin, sounding doubtful.

"THRUSH can get pretty, ah, creative," said Napoleon. His Aimée nuzzled up brazenly against Erin's goat dæmon. "Although I can understand why you wouldn't believe us. You've got far more experience with this place, and we're just outsiders. We could hardly expect you to take us at our word."

"I guess I'll have to come with you, then," said Erin, glaring at her father as if daring him to object. "See it for myself."

Illya let his forehead hit the table. "No. Absolutely not. It's dangerous, and Napoleon and I don't have the time to be babysitting a civilian. Especially since, should we get caught, they'd most likely start torturing you first. U.N.C.L.E. is known for flinching at the injury of innocents, and THRUSH won't hesitate to use that against us."

"That's a little harsh, partner," said Napoleon, kicking Illya's ankle under the table. (Sasha hissed at him.) He smiled at Colonel Miller, putting on his nice-responsible-Ouisconsin-boy act. "It would help us a whole lot to have someone along who knows the area, and we'd put your daughter's safety above our own."

Illya tuned out the rest of the conversation in favor of inhaling his breakfast. He already knew what the outcome would be; Napoleon nearly always got what he wanted. Besides—he glanced at his watch, then at the window—it was almost time for them to start putting their layers on, and he'd hate to leave such a nice breakfast unfinished.

 

***

 

The three of them parked the snowmobile under a tree in the greyish pre-dawn glow, somewhere between a half- and a quarter-mile away from the old cabin Erin remembered. According to Illya's map, the satrapy and chapel were approximately where the old cabin was supposed to be, so there was a pretty good chance they'd find THRUSH there.

All of them were bundled up to their eyebrows, even Aimée and Erin's goat dæmon, David. Sasha, as usual, was tucked away in one of Illya's inside pockets. Even so, Napoleon was trying not to shiver, and Illya looked sleepy, the way he did when the building maintenance at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters refused to turn the heat on until it actually got below freezing outside.

"Which way from here, Miss Miller?" Illya asked, keeping his voice low in case THRUSH had been smart enough to put guards around the outside of their hideout.

"It's not far," said Erin. She pointed. "Just through those trees there."

"Thanks," said Illya, rather more curtly than Napoleon thought was necessary. "You should take the snowmobile and go home now."

"No," said Erin, folding her arms. "I'll see the evidence for this secret base with my own eyes."

Napoleon put a hand on her shoulder, glaring daggers at Illya for half a second before he softened his demeanor to talk to Erin. "Ah, Miss Miller, we're not sending you away because it's dangerous. You've got a very important job—if we get in trouble, we'll need someone who can call in the cavalry. Your father can't do it—he's military, so the locals would get upset at him working outside his jurisdiction." He rustled up a piece of paper and a pen and jotted down the instructions for getting in touch with U.N.C.L.E. as a civilian (or from an unsecured line), then handed her the piece of paper. "Here. Take this home, and if we don't come back within twelve hours, follow these instructions. Can you do that?"

Erin took the paper and put it in her pocket, not looking convinced—or terribly pleased at Napoleon's tone. "I can certainly tell when I'm being condescended to, I'll tell you that much."

Napoleon winced. That had backfired.

"We did promise your father we'd keep you safe," said Illya. "And calling in reinforcements is genuinely an important job. We're very good at what we do, but sometimes things go wrong. Also, if we could hurry this up, that would be nice. We're burning daylight. Or lack of daylight. Whichever it is."

Now Napoleon _knew_ Illya was cold enough that his thoughts were slowing down—he hardly ever flubbed a metaphor unless he was half-asleep, drugged, or well-fucked. (Napoleon firmly nudged his brain away from that last line of thought. Plenty of time for that later.)

Erin raised her eyebrows—difficult as it was to actually _see_ her eyebrows under her hat, her posture made her disdain clear. "I still want to see this underground mad experimental theologian's lair, or whatever it is, and I don't appreciate being talked to like I'm five years old."

"How about a compromise?" said Napoleon. "You'll come with us to the cabin, we'll find the secret entrance and show it to you, and then you'll go back to the snowmobile and take it home."

Erin considered it, then took off her glove, brushed away some of Napoleon's layers, and slapped him across the face. "Fine," she said, looking extremely pleased with herself.

Napoleon let out a quiet relieved breath, gently rubbing his cheek as he rearranged his layers to the melodious sound of Illya snickering in the background. That could have gone a lot worse.

 

***

 

On the outside, the old cabin didn't look like much. There were gaps showing between the planks of the walls, and large patches missing from the roof.

"You know, I don't think even my la—chapel at U.N.C.L.E. would fit in that thing," said Illya, correcting his phrasing at the last minute. Their tagalong _was_ a New Dane, and he didn't really want to deal with the whole "all you godless Commies are going to hell" thing right now. Or ever, frankly, but especially not while he was working.

"Exactly," said Erin. "You see what I mean? I don't think there's anything here."

"Well, to be honest, I hope you're right," said Illya.

They moved into the cabin and began searching carefully.

"I'm sure we can find whatever secret entrance there is," Napoleon said to Aimée, not as quietly as he probably thought.

"Says the man who had to come knock on my door a few days ago because he lost the keys to his apartment," Illya joked, nudging Napoleon gently in the well-padded ribs with his equally-well-padded elbow.

"Says the man who uses any flat surface he can find as a filing cabinet and bookshelf," said Napoleon, nudging Illya back. "Up to and including the floor."

"You just don't recognize a functional system of organization when you see one," Illya said loftily. He ducked under Napoleon's elbow and brushed his fingertips along a suspicious section of wall, then prodded it more firmly. "Just like you don't recognize a hidden lever when you see one."

There was a click and a small piece of the floor lifted slightly and slid back, exposing a handle.

"No need to look so smug," said Napoleon, brushing a thumb across Illya's cheekbone. From the look in his eyes, Illya hypothesized that, had they been alone, there would have been some thorough kissing.

Illya cleared his throat and yanked his mind back to the mission. "Miss Miller, are you satisfied, or must we investigate further?"

Erin's goat dæmon—Illya hadn't caught his name—trotted up to the handle and nudged it. Erin crouched beside him to poke at the handle herself. "Investigate further," she said, and pulled the handle. There was a rumbling of machinery, and a larger section of flooring—fortunately not where any of them were standing—started to slide back.

Just then, the door to the outside slammed open and several THRUSH minions with rifles poured through, aiming at the three caught red-handed in the act of trying to get into a THRUSH base.

With a sigh in unison, Napoleon and Illya put their hands up. After a cautious glance their direction, Erin mimicked them.

And things had been going so well.

 

***

 

**Act IV: Dead and buried**

 

The THRUSH minions, presumably following some previously-received orders, put Napoleon and Erin—both stripped of their warm layers—in a cell and dragged a sedated and similarly-stripped Illya off elsewhere.

The door to the cell clanged shut, the lock clunked, and there was a minute or so of silence. Erin sat down on the floor, tugged her dæmon into her lap, and started running her hands over David's fur.

"Your father's going to kill me," said Napoleon, leaning on the wall next to the door.

"Probably," Erin agreed, with a hysterical little laugh.

"Annabel could eat you alive," David added to Aimée.

Aimée ducked behind Napoleon's legs at the reminder of how much bigger a German shepherd was than a fox, pressing her body against his calves. She was trembling faintly with the fear and frustration they were both trying not to show.

Napoleon sighed quietly and slid down the wall so he could gather Aimée into his lap and scratch under her chin and around her ears. "Everything'll be fine. Illya—sorry, Agent Kuryakin—and I are both trained for this kind of thing."

"The angry father thing or the being taken prisoner and locked up thing?" Erin asked.

"Both," said Napoleon. "Well, Illya's better at the being-locked-up part, and I'm better at the other part. Practice, don't you know." He started fiddling with his cufflinks.

Erin snickered. "Ah, I see how the missions usually get divided up."

"Pure coincidence, Miss Miller, I assure you," said Napoleon. He got his left cufflink unfastened and held the pieces carefully in his left hand while he scooped Aimée over his shoulder with his right. "You should get away from the door."

"Why?" asked Erin, holding her dæmon a little more tightly than was probably comfortable.

"Because I'm going to blow up the lock, and there might be shrapnel," said Napoleon. He got to his feet, dumped Aimée gently to the floor, and cautiously felt around the door to their cell for where the lock was. Having found it, he armed his cufflink, stuck it to the door—that magnet in the back panel really was useful—and ducked into a corner, shielding Aimée's fluffy body with his own.

There was a sharp crack and a puff of smoke, signalling that the cufflink had detonated perfectly.

"Exploding cufflinks?" said Erin. "Really?"

"Ah, yep," said Napoleon. He inched the door open just wide enough for Aimée to stick her snout through to check for nearby THRUSHes. "Illya came up with them." The memory—one of their first missions together, and they'd both been so young and touchy and unsure of themselves and each other—brought a warm glow of nostalgia.

"Huh," said Erin, unimpressed. She nudged her dæmon off her lap and pushed herself to her feet, brushing dark goat hair off her trousers. "Well? Any of them nearby?"

"Nope," said Aimée, nudging the door further open with her narrow head. "We're clear."

Erin and Napoleon slipped out into the hallway, dæmons close behind. Aimée's claws and David's cloven hooves were loud on the concrete floor, but other than that they tried to be stealthy.

"Where are we going?" Erin asked.

"We're looking for where they might have put our winter layers," said Napoleon.

"Practical, I guess," said Erin. "We'd freeze without them, outside."

"Well, that, and my coat's got my communicator and gun in it," said Napoleon.

"Ah," said Erin. "What about your partner? He's creepy, but we shouldn't just leave him here."

"That's step two," said Napoleon, putting aside the insult to Illya for the moment. He tapped the side of his nose and smiled at her. "Trust me, I have a plan."

Erin rolled her eyes. "A plan. Great. Now nothing can go wrong."

 

***

 

Illya came to awareness slowly, with a vicious headache and a roiling stomach. He could feel that Sasha was nearby, within their range, but not touching him. Probably in a cage nearby, like the last time they'd been captured. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even, both to push the bile back down his throat and to hopefully keep his captors unaware that he had returned to consciousness.

Clammy fingers brushed across his cheek. Not Napoleon—no calluses—and not medical personnel—too soft. Illya deliberately did not flinch.

"You can drop the charade, my dear. I know you're awake."

Illya's eyes snapped open with the shock of hearing that voice. "I see that rumors of your demise have been unfortunately exaggerated, Rolvaag," he said coolly, swallowing carefully to quiet his stomach and keep his pounding heart out of his throat. A Section II agent was never afraid; ask any U.N.C.L.E. employee. Illya was Section II, and therefore unafraid. It didn't matter that he could still feel those clammy hands on Sasha's scales, wrong and awful and—no, he wasn't thinking about that now. Or ever.

Rolvaag frowned. "So formal, Irinka. I'm hurt."

Illya hissed, teeth bared, a sound like he'd heard angry cats make. If he hadn't been restrained, he would have lunged with intent to maim. "Do not use that name. It's not mine anymore."

Rolvaag ignored him, instead turning to a large panel of blinking lights covering the back wall, clipboard in hand.

Illya used the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a lab of some sort, hands tied tightly behind his back, in a cramped silver-mesh box with an open door about two feet square at the front and a larger door, locked shut, on the right side. He had been stripped to his undershirt and underwear, and his watch had been confiscated along with his clothes, communicator, and pistol, so he didn't have any neat little gadgets on him. He wasn't injured, apart from the headache, nausea, and a few bumps and bruises.

Inventory of his own condition done, he started looking for Sasha. His dæmon had to be somewhere in this room, but wouldn't risk moving, calling out, or otherwise drawing attention to himself.

There was nothing very exciting to his right, just some boxes which looked a great deal like the sketches of Rusakov-particle storage devices Illya had seen in Rolvaag's paper. Behind him was just the concrete wall of the lab. He glanced to his left, then bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from flinching.

His Sasha was in a cage like his, except it was clearly designed so that the walls could expand or contract depending on what size of dæmon it held. And between and above them was a silver-edged blade, held up by wires, with a horrible sheen to it.

Illya now understood why Rolvaag had been working on Rusakov-particle storage devices; why THRUSH had set up this satrapy near a town instead of in the middle of nowhere; where the energy to power Rolvaag's device was going to come from.

It made a horrible kind of sense, in a way. It was how atomcraft worked. A broken bond released energy, whether that bond was between protons and neutrons or a person and their dæmon. Enough for a mushroom cloud. Enough, perhaps, to punch a hole in the world.

 

***

 

Napoleon and Erin managed to find and retrieve their outerwear without much trouble and with only a few unconscious THRUSH guards strewn in their wake. To Napoleon's delight, his and Illya's guns and communicators had been kept with their clothes; slightly less of a delight was the hiss of static when he turned his communicator on, indicating that it wasn't able to receive or transmit a signal. He wouldn't be able to call in the cavalry from here.

"What did you expect?" Aimée murmured to him. "We're underground, and I'm pretty sure the nearest radio tower is a few hundred miles away."

Napoleon ruffled her ears. "Do you still have that piece of paper I gave you?" he asked Erin. "The one with the phone number and the instructions on it?"

Erin frowned, then poked through the pockets on her parka. There was a rustle of paper. "This one? Yeah, sure. Why?"

"I need to call in some backup," said Napoleon. "Or a clean-up team at the very least. Do you think you could get out of here, take the snowmobile back to your father, and follow the instructions on that paper?"

"Why can't you do it?" said Erin.

Napoleon smiled grimly. "I'm going to save my partner."

Ten minutes later, Erin was slipping out through the trapdoor concealed in the old cabin, Napoleon keeping watch from below.

"Good luck," he whispered up to her.

"Try not to die," Erin whispered back, then blew him a kiss.

Napoleon winked at her, then slipped away, Aimée close behind, to track Illya down. The THRUSHes who'd built this satrapy weren't as considerate as the ones who'd built the satrapy in Carolina. There weren't any helpful signs lying around, so Napoleon and Aimée would have to search the whole place themselves.

Fortunately, Erin had been partially correct about the ground being too frozen to do much excavating. The satrapy appeared to be relatively small and uncomplicated in layout. Unless a THRUSH minion managed to sound the alarm, Napoleon and Aimée should be able to find Illya reasonably quickly.

"Can you smell anything?" Napoleon murmured to his dæmon.

Aimée sniffed the air, searching for traces of their partner, then indicated a direction with a flick of her bushy tail. "This way."

 

***

 

Illya watched carefully as Rolvaag fussed with his clipboard and the panel of blinking lights, muttering to himself and occasionally flipping switches or turning dials. From Illya's near-perfect memory of the plans, Rolvaag's device would require careful calibration before it was used, and the best time to…charge up the Rusakov-particle storage devices…would be right before using the device.

Illya still felt nauseous. He told himself it was the aftereffects of the sedative, but he had a sinking feeling that it was due to the prospect of his approaching fate.

He'd seen severed people before, in the course of his work. No more than once or twice, but the experience had settled firmly into his memory. In a way, it was worse than death. Death was final. Once someone was dead, it was undeniable that they were gone. Severed people still breathed and blinked and had a pulse and a dæmon, but there was nothing behind their eyes, no will to live or move or speak.

He hoped, in a distant sort of way, that Rolvaag wouldn't leave his body breathing afterwards. Illya could handle the idea of Napoleon seeing him dead; they faced that possibility every time they went outside. What Illya couldn't bear was the thought of Napoleon seeing him an empty shell, Sasha in a listless heap in the next cage over. He knew his partner. Napoleon wouldn't be able to let him go if his body still had a pulse. Napoleon would drag the corpse home and try anything to fix the unfixable.

Illya picked at the knots in the rope that bound his hands and prayed to Napoleon's God that his partner would get here before Rolvaag's calibration was finished.

 

***

 

Aimée trailed Illya's scent to one solid steel door among several lining a concrete hallway. "They're in here," she whispered to Napoleon.

"Well done, my darling," said Napoleon, crouching to run his hands through her soft fur. "You have the best nose I know."

Aimée licked his face. "Naturally," she said smugly.

Napoleon stood and carefully tested the door's handle. Locked. Not unexpected. He pulled off his other cufflink, armed it, stuck it to the door, and ducked back around a corner on the hingeward side of the door to protect himself from both the blast and whatever THRUSHes might be alarmed by it.

After the cufflink had gone off, Napoleon poked his head cautiously around the corner, followed closely by the suppressed muzzle of his gun in case there was any trouble.

The door was hanging ajar and the light from within spilled into the hallway. Napoleon waited, and breathed, and stroked Aimée's ears.

"Illya and Sasha are definitely in there," Aimée murmured. She tucked her nose into Napoleon's palm, ears flat. "They're scared."

"Well, it's a good thing we were already planning on destroying the place," said Napoleon.

An impossibly familiar head poked out of the door. "Hello?" called Rolvaag, who was definitely supposed to be dead and buried under the wreckage of the satrapy in Carolina. "Who's there?"

Napoleon stepped out from behind the corner, gun first. "Hands where I can see them, Dr. Rolvaag."

Rolvaag sighed and put his hands up, his bean goose dæmon waddling out by his feet. "You U.N.C.L.E. men, always ruining my fun."

"That's my job," Napoleon said pleasantly. Aimée snarled at Rolvaag's dæmon, who ruffled her feathers huffily. "Now, you're going to open that door properly and back up into the room, I'm going to retrieve my partner, and we're going to haul you back to U.N.C.L.E. for a nice little chat." He flashed his teeth in what could have technically been considered a smile. "Or I'll shoot you right now. It's not loaded with tranquilizers this time." He wouldn't ordinarily be so cold with a THRUSH experimental theologian, but this scum had hurt Illya.

"All right, all right, no need to get snippy," said Rolvaag. He backed up slowly, pulling the door open as he went.

Napoleon let himself glance around at the chapel, taking in the bizarre equipment and the panel of dials and switches and blinking lights. He knew Aimée would keep an eye on Rolvaag, and he needed to find Illya and make sure he was unharmed.

When he saw the machine against the left-hand wall with its dual cages about a yard apart and gleaming silver blade above, he nearly gagged. Seeing Illya half-naked and slumped over in one of the cages, with Sasha a limp line of scales in the other, sent a bolt of sheer terror through his heart.

Then Illya moved, looked up, and the look on his face when he saw Napoleon—recognition, hope, that blazing will to live—was almost enough to make Napoleon's knees buckle with relief.

"You're late," said Illya, tone as cool as always. "I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

Napoleon wasn't fooled. He grinned at his partner. "Not a chance, partner. You reek too much for that."

"Well, isn't this touching," said Rolvaag, sneering. Aimée and Napoleon had backed him into a corner, the one away from any levers or buttons. "I see you've managed to replace me without too much trouble, Irinka."

Napoleon waved his gun in Rolvaag's direction. Aimée growled at him. "I didn't ask you to speak." He turned to the cage Illya was in, looking for the lock.

"Left side," Illya murmured. "Your left."

"Thanks," said Napoleon. Once he found it, it was but the work of a minute to get it open. "Your shoulders okay?" he asked, cutting through the rope around Illya's wrists. "By the way, I sent Erin home. She's hopefully calling in some reinforcements for us."

"Ah," said Illya. "Lovely. I'm fine, thank you." He glanced behind him at the cage that held his dæmon and lowered his voice even further. "Napoleon, you're going to have to get Sasha out. It's too far."

Napoleon hissed in a shocked breath. To do that, he'd almost definitely have to touch Sasha. "Are you sure?"

"We're sure," said Sasha. "We trust you."

"Illya?" said Napoleon.

Illya bit his lip, then nodded.

Napoleon shuffled through the bag he'd grabbed with their outerwear and explosives in it. "I brought you your gun. Keep an eye on Rolvaag, would you? And try not to shoot him anywhere fatal just yet."

Illya flashed him a grin. "Thank you, my friend." He took his gun, checked it over, and slid backwards until he was pressed up against the mesh side closest to Sasha.

Napoleon took a deep breath and went around to unlatch Sasha's cage, Aimée close enough to his feet that he was in danger of stepping on her. The lock was much simpler this time, so it was only a few seconds before the door was open. "It's okay," Napoleon murmured, holding out an arm for Sasha to climb onto and wrap himself around. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

Sasha poked his head out, tasting the air, then slithered out and wrapped himself firmly around Napoleon's jacket-covered arm. The little kingsnake was trembling.

As quickly as he could manage, Napoleon delivered Sasha to Illya, who took his dæmon carefully in his hands and held him close.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand," said Illya. He had that light in his eyes that meant something would be exploding in the very near future.

Napoleon grinned at the expression his partner had used. Watching Illya pick up Americanisms was one of his favorite sources of entertainment. "What about him?" he asked, gesturing towards Rolvaag. "We can't let him continue working for THRUSH."

"I think we should kill him," said Aimée, her tail lashing. "He deserves no less."

"Slowly," Napoleon added.

"We don't have time for slowly," said Illya. "And Waverly will probably want to have him interrogated. Besides, we can use him as a hostage if any guards stop us."

Napoleon sighed. "Fine. I hate it when you're right."

Illya smirked at him. "I'm nearly always right."

Napoleon got the sense that, had they been alone, Illya would have kissed him then and there.

 

***

 

When Napoleon, Illya, and their trussed-up captive emerged into the old cabin, Erin was waiting for them outside with the snowmobile, her nose in a paperback.

"Your uncle said a cleanup team was on its way," she said, shrugging. "It's a long walk back, so I thought I'd come get you. I didn't have anything better to do."

"Thank you, Erin," said Napoleon. He took her gloved hand and brushed a kiss across the back. "We couldn't have done it without you."

Erin rolled her eyes—a completely rational response to Napoleon, Illya thought. "Get on the snowmobile."

The ride back to Colonel Miller's place of residence was better-lit than the drive out had been, which meant fewer close calls with branches, roots, and miscellaneous wildlife. Colonel Miller greeted them at the door and hugged his daughter close the instant her feet touched the ground.

"Thank God you're home safe," he said, while his dæmon sniffed Erin's thoroughly to check for damage.

They'd have to stay around for a day or so to make sure the situation was handed over properly to the cleanup crew. After that they could go home and debrief, which meant Illya writing most of the report while Napoleon made unhelpful commentary, and then they'd have dinner together, and then…

As if reading Illya's mind, Napoleon glanced at him and winked.

Illya smiled back. _Oh yes, "and then."_

 

***

 

_U.N.C.L.E. HQs, New Amsterdam_

"Well," said Waverly, "not bad, you two."

Coming from him, that was high praise indeed. Napoleon preened; Aimée, perched on his lap, groomed her front paws like she did when she was pleased. Illya sat up straighter in his chair.

"The cleanup team reports that they have destroyed the THRUSH satrapy and chapel," Waverly continued, "along with the devices and notes contained therein. Dr. Rolvaag's interrogation confirms that the only remaining copy of his notes was in that satrapy, so it looks like THRUSH won't be tearing holes in reality for quite some time, if ever." Absentmindedly, he stroked his dæmon's glossy greenish-black back.

"We can only hope, sir," said Illya.

"Hm, yes," said Waverly. "All right. Dismissed. I expect your typed and signed report on my desk by the day after tomorrow."

Napoleon nudged Aimée off his lap and stood, placing a hand on Illya's shoulder to encourage his partner up. "Yes, sir. We'll get it done, sir."

Illya elbowed his partner in the ribs. "I think you mean _I'll_ get it done."

Bickering quietly, they departed.

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in order of appearance:  
> Dr. Rolvaag: Essa, [bean goose](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bean_goose)  
> Waverly: Liza (short for Elizabeth), [crow](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carrion_crow)  
> Napoleon: Aimée, [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_fox)  
> Illya: Sasha (short for Aleksander), [scarlet kingsnake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scarlet_kingsnake)  
> Colonel Miller: Annabel, [German shepherd](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_Shepherd)  
> Erin Miller: David, [~~Oberhasli~~ Swiss Alpine goat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oberhasli_goat)
> 
> comments are love, kudos are life, etc; hope y'all enjoyed!


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